“Mr. Dobbs himself,” stated the colonel, referring to his paper. “But allow me to—ah—mention that Mr. Randall makes no denial, and no explanation.”
Frank glanced again at Randall, in perplexity.
“What’s the answer, old man?”
“I received a letter from my cousin, Edward Carson, the son of Colonel Carson, of Carsonville,” said Randall. “He asked me to meet him at the hotel on important business. I was unable to get away before taps, so I left my room by means of a rope, and entered the hotel quietly, hoping to avoid observation.”
“Ah, Mr. Randall,” wheezed the colonel, “and what, may I inquire, was the nature of the—ah—important business to which your cousin referred?”
“I must refuse to answer, sir,” and Randall suddenly went white. “I give you my word, sir, that it was entirely personal and private. More than that, I cannot say.”
A little silence ensued. Frank studied Randall, but could find no trace of guilt in the dark, handsome features. Nor did he believe the Southerner guilty.
“You know nothing of the theft, of course?”
“Nothing, Chip.”
“I must say, colonel,” exclaimed Frank, turning to the principal, “that I do not think Randall at all guilty. He could have easily lied out of the whole thing, and the inspector’s report would have borne him out. The fact that he refused to do so must surely count in his favor?”